


Aesthetics

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Karneval
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drinking, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3430901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tsukitachi can make himself last longer at a distance, can appreciate the aesthetics of Akari’s pale hair alongside Hirato’s dark, and today that is exactly what he wants." Hirato likes to touch, and Tsukitachi likes to watch, and Akari needs to relax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aesthetics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Claws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claws/gifts).



Tsukitachi likes to watch.

There’s nothing wrong with participating too. Some days he’s just as physically involved as the other two, kissing against Akari’s neck while Hirato sucks him off or fucking Hirato over the end of the bed while Akari presses a knee against the other’s back and leans in to kiss him. But he can make himself last longer at a distance, can appreciate the aesthetics of Akari’s pale hair alongside Hirato’s dark, and today that is exactly what he wants.

They’ve been putting on a good show for him, this evening. Tsukitachi knows without having to taste that Akari’s tongue will be sweet with the brandy he favors, that Hirato tastes like the smoky whiskey he’s been working through all night. Akari is hazy, flushed pink and warm until his usual tension has given way, until he’s sprawled across Tsukitachi’s bed with no sign of self-consciousness about his half-buttoned shirt or the fact that his pants are somewhere near the door. Tsukitachi’s pretty sure Akari lost track of where he is, and who he’s with, after Hirato started kissing him over the corner of the table, but for all that Akari is oblivious Hirato is explicitly aware. He’s watching Tsukitachi more than he is Akari, letting his hands slide up under the loose edge of the other’s shirt while he smirks at their audience, his glasses still perfectly in place in contrast to the tangle Akari’s fingers have made of his hair.

“Akari-san,” he says without looking away from Tsukitachi. His hands slip back down, drag over the pale curve of Akari’s waist Tsukitachi can see under the rumpled fabric so he can slide his fingers under the edge of Akari’s boxers. “You can’t have your eyes shut.” When he reaches up it’s to touch Akari’s cheek, to stroke attention back into his eyes, and no sooner is Akari glaring up at Hirato than Hirato looks back at Tsukitachi, tipping his head in unspoken amusement. “What will Tsukitachi have to look at?”

Tsukitachi can see the way Akari’s eyelashes flutter, the confusion glazing his eyes when he turns his head to look. Then it clears, flushing embarrassment cresting red all across his cheeks, and Tsukitachi can predict the swing of Akari’s fist into Hirato’s shoulder before he sees it happen.

“You two are insufferable,” Akari points out, spitting the words like they are an insult or in some way a new and unknown fact. “Get  _off_  me.” His hand drags up, makes a fist of Hirato’s hair, but when he pushes it’s down instead of away, sending Hirato exactly where Tsukitachi knows he wants to be anyway.

“You do know how to keep things exciting,” Hirato says against Akari’s stomach, loudly enough that Tsukitachi can hear it clear over the intervening distance. From his vantage point he can see the way Akari shudders under the words, can see the flex of his back as he arches up involuntarily towards the heat of Hirato’s mouth. Hirato glances sideways again, meets Tsukitachi’s gaze with a grin of understanding, and when he pushes at Akari’s boxers it’s with the slow slide of a man revealing a work of art. “This is what you want to see, right, Tsukitachi?”

“Fuck you,” Akari hisses. When Tsukitachi looks up Akari’s got an arm pressed over his face, the crimson of his blush hidden in the crook of his elbow, but he’s not trying to wiggle away, and he’s not pulling on the fist he still has in Hirato’s hair. He’s hard when Hirato gets his clothes pushed off his hips, his cock flushed red with heat, and Hirato’s gaze slips from Tsukitachi’s face, his lips fall out of their smirk to purr satisfaction instead. Tsukitachi takes a breath of anticipation on behalf of all three of them, and Hirato opens his mouth to drag his tongue up the smooth line of Akari’s cock without pausing to give anything like warning.

Akari arches up off the bed, the irritation in his throat melting into a groan instead, and Tsukitachi flinches against the instant rush of blood pushing him hard against the front of his pants. Hirato laughs, low and delighted, catches Tsukitachi’s gaze and holds it as he takes Akari past his lips and over his tongue. Akari is pulling at his hair, now, dragging with what must be painful force, but Hirato shows no signs of discomfort; his mouth is taut around a fought-back smile, his eyes dark and smug with knowledge, and Tsukitachi has to laugh as he pushes the button of his pants free of the cloth and slides the zipper down.

“You two look so good together,” he declares. Hirato laughs without pulling away, the vibration pulling Akari’s hiss of protest into another shuddering gasp, and when he dips his head lower Akari’s arm falls away from his face entirely. Tsukitachi can see the way Akari’s mouth is coming open, the flutter of pale eyelashes over the rich radiance of his eyes, and he’s smiling appreciation as he pushes his pants half-off his hips so he can close his fingers around himself. He’s hot to the touch, slick under the press of his thumb against the head of his cock, and he doesn’t mean to sigh satisfaction but his exhale jumps into the range of pleasure before he has an opportunity to restrain it. The sound pulls Akari’s attention to him, drags his head sideways so he can see what Tsukitachi is doing, and Tsukitachi isn’t sure what Hirato is doing with his mouth but it must be something particularly inventive because Akari doesn’t even offer protest to the slide of Tsukitachi’s fingers up over his length. He just watches, his lips parted against the sound of his breathing and eyes gone hazy with sensation, and Tsukitachi’s blood flashes hot in his veins at the lingering observation. He slides an inch forward in his chair, tips his hips up a little, strokes a little slower, like he’s putting on a show. Akari starts to frown in disapproval at this blatant acknowledgment of his gaze, opens his mouth to protest, but Hirato is more aware of what they are doing than Tsukitachi thought because he chooses this moment to duck his head in far enough to let Akari’s cock bump the back of his throat. Akari’s developing frown goes slack and hot instead, his head tips back as his eyes flutter shut, and when he makes a sound it’s a moan instead of judgment.

Hirato draws back, replaces his lips with the curl of his fingers, keeps stroking to keep Akari boneless and shaking against the bed as he looks over at Tsukitachi. “It’s really better from over here,” he says, as he always does, his eyes dark and shadowed with heat. “You sure you don’t want to join me?”

Tsukitachi shakes his head without thinking about it, reaches up to open the button holding his jacket shut. His movements come a little easier with the release of that tension, he can relax a little farther back in his chair. “I like the view just fine,” he says, and Hirato laughs.

“To each his own,” he allows, leans in closer to kiss against the pale line of Akari’s hip. The other gasps an inhale, rocks up to meet Hirato’s touch, and Hirato says without looking up, “Tsukitachi, can you toss me the lube?”

“Fuck you both,” Akari manages, though the words lack force after shivering over the tension in his throat and are undermined by the way he’s meeting every downward slide of Hirato’s hand against him with an upward tilt of his hips. “I hate you so much.”

Hirato tugs free of Akari’s hold on his hair and rocks back on his heels. “I know,” he purrs, looks up and holds out a hand to catch the bottle Tsukitachi throws his way. He opens it one-handed, the motion easy with practice, and Tsukitachi can see the way Akari’s eyes flicker to Hirato’s fingers, the way his free hand curls into a fist of taut anticipation when Hirato lets him go to pour liquid across his fingers. Akari’s not looking at Tsukitachi anymore at all; the slide of his attention  leaves Tsukitachi free to watch his face, to see the flick of Akari’s tongue as he wets his lower lip and the way his eyelashes flutter when Hirato isn’t watching.

It’s like watching some sensual dance, the movements so elegant they can’t be adequately appreciated except from the outside. Tsukitachi lets his shoulders rest against the back of his chair, takes a steadying breath as if he’s the one who needs to center himself, smiles at the way Akari’s eyes go hot when Hirato’s not watching him. It’s like Akari can only keep track of one of them at a time, forgets that Tsukitachi’s eyes are on them both when Hirato is moving. But Hirato never forgets; Tsukitachi knows without having to look up that Hirato’s glancing at him as he slicks his fingers, as he presses his hand in at Akari’s knee to urge his legs wide before he reaches down. Tsukitachi’s smile is for Hirato’s behalf, telegraphing the relevant information about Akari’s expression to the other without having to say anything at all.

Maybe it’s unfair, to team up on Akari like this. Tsukitachi has never felt bad about it before, though, and he’s not going to start now. The guilt seems pointless when they’re not going to stop, and besides it’s hardly like Akari doesn’t enjoy himself. Tsukitachi can see it in the way his head tilts back when Hirato slides his fingers into him, can hear it in the groan Akari only manages to half-restrain. It’s a pleasure to watch the perpetual tension in Akari’s body go slack and trembling under the motion of Hirato’s fingers, satisfying to see the way his knees fall open in unconscious invitation for more, and Tsukitachi doesn’t think about the way he’s stroking faster over himself, twisting his hand for extra sensation like he’s trying to chase down an echo of the flush spreading over Akari’s cheeks.

“How is he?” Hirato asks, his voice coming clear and remarkably stable over the pant of Akari’s breathing and the pounding of Tsukitachi’s overheated pulse in his ears. When Tsukitachi looks back at him Hirato is smiling again, cool and collected with complete disregard for the rhythm he is setting with the thrusts of his fingers.

“Ah.” Tsukitachi has to force his attention into place, has to deliberately maintain his focus when he looks back to Akari’s face. He’s arching off the bed almost entirely, now, his hand curled into a fist on his hair and his cheeks flushed red as if he’s had far more to drink than he has in truth. His mouth is open, his throat working on sound between every gasping inhale, his shoulders trembling with tension. Tsukitachi doesn’t have to look down to see the tremors of want bumping the slick at the head of Akari’s cock against his stomach before he says, “He’s ready” with complete conviction in his voice.

“Good,” Hirato says, draws his fingers out so he can pull Akari’s boxers entirely off. It speaks to Akari’s state that he doesn’t protest this, doesn’t seem to have heard Tsukitachi at all; he just rolls over as soon as Hirato has worked the fabric off his legs, presses himself in against Tsukitachi’s rumpled sheets like he’s trying to breathe in the smell of them. Tsukitachi stares at the line of his neck, the angle of his wrist as he fits his hand in under his hips, and then Hirato’s fingers are closing at Akari’s skin, drawing him up and back over his knees.

“Higher,” he orders. When Tsukitachi looks back at him he has his pants open, his shirt catching against his cock until it does more to titillate than to cover. Tsukitachi’s mouth goes dry, there’s another slick of pre-come over his fingers, and he has to deliberately slow his strokes as he watches Hirato push his shirt aside and stroke lube over himself. His jacket is still on, his glasses still in place, and when he glances at Tsukitachi his smirk is just as steady as ever.

“Ready?” he asks. Tsukitachi grins back, Akari opens his mouth to respond, and Hirato thrusts himself forward without waiting for the other’s word. Akari jerks, his back curving into a perfect arch, and Tsukitachi can’t help the groan he makes as he watches Hirato sink into Akari’s body.

It’s better this way, when he can watch both of them at once. He can see the way Akari’s eyes shut, the way he dips his head in submission as his fingers curl into fingers against the sheets, and he can look up, too, watch Hirato’s cheeks tinge faint pink and his lips part as his breathing comes a little faster. He can see Akari rock forward with every thrust of Hirato’s hips, can see the way Hirato’s shoulder shifts under his jacket when he leans forward to reach around and close his fingers on Akari’s length. Hirato’s tie is slipping loose, catching against the rumpled white of Akari’s half-buttoned shirt, and Hirato is looking at Tsukitachi, smirking bright and knowing as Akari gasps against the sheets and starts to tremble under Hirato’s movements. Tsukitachi’s heart is pounding in his chest; he’s not even thinking about the movement of his hand anymore, doesn’t have to think to match it to the slow strokes of Hirato’s hips. Everything is falling into a single heartbeat of desire, Akari’s moaning exhales and Hirato’s steady thrusts and Tsukitachi’s grip on himself, his fingers drawing tighter as Akari goes tense and breathless over the bed.

Tsukitachi gasps when Akari comes, air rushing out of his lungs to be drowned out by the near-wail of relief Akari makes as he spills against Hirato’s fingers and Tsukitachi’s sheets, and it’s only the draw of Hirato’s dark eyes that pulls Tsukitachi’s focus up from the exhausted shivers running through Akari’s shoulders. Hirato is staring at him, still managing a smirk as he moves faster, daring Tsukitachi to match him, and Tsukitachi has never yet backed down from one of Hirato’s challenges. He holds the other’s gaze as he strokes faster, Akari’s gasping response to Hirato’s movements forming the backdrop to the heat surging higher in Tsukitachi’s blood. Tsukitachi is just becoming certain he’s going to lose when Hirato blinks, his expression finally melting into tense anticipation, and when Hirato groans satisfaction and stutters still over Akari Tsukitachi laughs, and shuts his eyes at last as pleasure washes out over him with all the tingling satisfaction of delayed gratification. Everything becomes a single thrumming note, Akari’s steadying breathing and the sound of Hirato’s clothes catching on each other, the white behind Tsukitachi’s eyes and the way his fingertips are going numb with the force of the sensation under his skin.

Tsukitachi isn’t sure how long Hirato lets him bask in the sensation. He’s still trembling when the other’s voice comes through to point out “You got your shirt dirty again.”

“It’s fine,” Tsukitachi says without opening his eyes. “I think your clothes are worse. And Akari-chan doesn’t even know where his are.”

“Shut up,” Akari says, and Tsukitachi laughs and opens his eyes. The other is curled across the bed, now, blinking himself back into enough focus to offer a glare, but it lacks the force to draw anything but laughter past Tsukitachi’s lips.

“Move over,” he says as he pushes to his feet. Hirato is sliding off the end of the bed, moving to strip his jacket off; Tsukitachi doesn’t even bother with that, just slides across the mattress to fit himself in against Akari’s flushed skin.

“Go away,” Akari protests, pushing at Tsukitachi’s shoulder, but he’s not using enough force to actually shove him back. “At least keep your clothes clean.”

“Whatever,” Tsukitachi hums, and when he presses his mouth to Akari’s collarbone the push at his shoulder goes slack with distraction.

“Tsukitachi never does care enough about appearances,” Hirato says as he settles onto the other side of the bed, pushing Akari in closer against Tsukitachi to make room for himself. Akari hisses but his lips smell like candy, and he turns up to meet the motion when Tsukitachi moves up from his shoulder to kiss his mouth instead. Hirato laughs, reaches out over Akari’s hip to slide his fingers up under Tsukitachi’s shirt, and Tsukitachi is certain that in spite of Akari’s protests none of them will be going anywhere for a while yet.

It’s not like they’re in a rush anyway. They could all do with some fun, now that Akari is relaxed, and the night is still young.


End file.
